Fallen Angel
by Tsy Descartes
Summary: What if Erik was never rescued from the gypsies by Mme. Giry, but by someone else? As enemies become friends, strangers become lovers, Erik discovers an alternate world with no Phantom of the Opera, and where he might get the fairytale ending he deserves. Please R & R!
1. Prologue

**Prologue **

**[[[ Here you go, new story! Got tired of the old one. Just didn't flow, you know? Hopefully this one will be better. Enjoy! I own nothing, don't sue me, etc. ]]]  
**

The sun had already set. The darkness seeped into the forest like a spreading poison. Shadows became longer and darker, growing into the likes of black ink. The creatures of the night began to appear, wolves, owls, and bats. To any other, it would have been cause enough to scream and run.

But to the boy, it was home.

The boy stood leaning against a tree. He looked delicate and incredibly skinny, as if he hadn't ever eaten to his fill in his life. The tree he was leaning against was five inches wider than him on either side, which further pronounced his scrawniness.

One might think he was hiding from someone looking for him, a worried parent, or a bully at school, or even the creatures of the deep night that hadn't yet come to bother the boy. One would never think he was hiding from himself.

The forest was outside of a little town called Boscherville, which was, in turn, near a larger town named Rouen, in the north of France. It was a large forest, in which many people had disappeared and were never found, the most recent of which was the little boy, who had no intention of being found.

He was a young boy, six or seven years old. He was tall, and rather skinny, with protruding knees and elbows. The poor boy was shaking, most likely the consequence of not wearing enough clothing: a meager shirt and pair of shorts, the shirt too thin, the shorts too small. His skin appeared to be tinted yellow, even in the dim moonlight of the forest.

Hanging upon his head was a cloth bag. It hid his face and most of his neck. Two little holes were crudely poked out, and it was clear the boy had a hard time seeing out of them. He pulled the cloth further over his head, his bony fingers shaking violently.

He was sobbing. Unseen tears fell under his mask and wet the cloth. He screamed out, the victim of an unknown terror, a horrible event, a real life nightmare.

The boy was scared. The boy was angry. The boy was sad.

But most of all, he was grateful for being in that deep, dark forest where he could let his emotions run loose, where he could whisper his worries to the wind.

And whispers they would remain, from then until forevermore.


	2. First Encounters

**Chapter 1**

**[[[Hello again, all. Here is the first chapter. Yay! Plot starts. Update should be in a few days.]]]**

Paris, 1846.

It was a cold fall evening. The air was humid and the gray cobblestones were wet with the morning's rain. All the bourgeoisie had already retreated for the night, but the lower class still roamed the streets, drunks wailing about with young women under each arm, thieves and beggars snatching a few coins that clattered to the street, but nobody cared. Nobody ever cared.

In the back alleys of the city of lovers was set up a small display. An exhibit, if you will. Different tents of various earth colors stood against the wall, and in each, faint lightbulbs flickered. Several vardos – Romani wagons – were placed in front of the first tent.

It was a gypsy camp. They were composed of several Romani families, traveling around from city to city, town to town, all across Europe, stealing and pickpocketing their way through life, collecting various oddities they could con children and fools into paying to see. Most of these oddities were objects, a shrunken head, a monkey skull.

But in one of these tents was something different. It was not an object of an oddity, but rather a human of an oddity. There was a flimsy metal cage in the center, on which hung a thin wooden sign with crooked letters that read 'The Devil's Child'.

Inside the cage was the boy. He was unmistakable. The cloth bag still hung over his head and he still wore his flimsy clothes. He was as twig-like as ever, and was even more undernourished than in the forest. The boy was hanging from the top of the cage with pieces of rope. His black eyes were wide in fear, but he made no noise, no scream.

There were whispers and movement from outside the tent, and little white figures moved inside. Those figures were that of young girls – ballerinas in training at the nearest dance studio. They were between the ages of ten and eighteen, the eldest were staggering around, bottles of vodka and rum in hand, their breaths heavy with alcohol. The youngest looked around in wonder, their eyes adjusting to the dim light, taking in the sight before them.

A gypsy man entered from the back of the tent, which caused ripples of half-shrieks half-giggles from the girls that were still sober. A brown whip appeared into his hand, which prompted more screams of laughter.

Whichet, whichet. The whip fell onto the boy's back. Whichet, whichet. It was all the boy heard. He had learned long ago to drown out the cries of amusement his audience gave. Whichet, whichet.

Then the climax of the show came. The gypsy man grinned, a golden tooth gleaming in the lamplight. He pulled the cloth off the boy's head. The ballerinas screamed, this time in true fear, and ran out.

The man spat at his feet, and replaced the mask, and left after the young women, sinful thoughts surely filling his mind.

The boy looked up.

A young girl still stood. She was leaning against the bars. She was staring up at him, at his black eyes that were full of emotion. She sighed, her own full of pity and remorse for the child that was barely a few years her junior.

He was not used to remorse. He was not used to pity. In fact, he'd never experienced it in his life. It was foreign, it was alien, it was unwelcome.

He growled. It was a low, guttural sound. It was that of an attacking wolf, that of a starving animal. It shook his fragile body. It shook the cage.

The ballerina's eyes widened, and she scampered out of the tent, just like all her friends. Just like all the others.

**† † † †**

Philippe de Chagny was frantic. He ran through the cobblestone streets, his face red, his palms sweating. He had barely left his teenage years, he had barely won his parents' trust in the ways of the adult world, and now! All for naught.

At his side was his younger sister, Marianne. She was a well-behaved child, and Philippe praised her for it. She was the ideal daughter, even at the age of six. She wore pretty floral dresses and her brown hair was always in a neat bun. She did not dirty her shoes or get herself covered in mud. She did not spill her tea. She was polite and courteous.

Their sister, Lucille, otherwise known as Lucy, the youngest of the family, was a different story.

Lucy was five. She ripped apart her dresses and wear her brother's trousers. She climbed trees and ran barefoot through the forest. She despised tea and all the conventions of the modern day: carriages and plush seats meant nothing, and she would often spend her rides attached to the roof of the wagon. The little de Chagny monkey caused more mischief than not.

And it was her, today, who had Philippe in such a frenzy.

Around the corner, he could hear her faint laughter. He ran, his feet pounding on the stones, Marianne still in tow. He could glimpse a little head of blond hair, but as he turned to get a better view, she was gone. He followed her down a deep, dark alleyway, sending chills up his spine and giving him goosebumps all over.

"Lucy, come out this instant," he cried, hardly sounding convincing of authority. "Lucy, this isn't funny!" He only got a giggle in response. "Lucille de Chagny!"

Philippe and Marianne continued after their sister, and soon came to that fateful group of Romani gypsies.

Lucy had disappeared into one of the tents. Philippe felt another shiver down his spine as her giggles and laughter abruptly stopped.

_Something's happened to her, something's happened to her,_ he thought in fear, and quickly entered the tent himself.

Lucy was kneeling by a cage, her little hands wrapped tightly around the bars. She stared at the creature inside, immobile and silent. Her brother squinted, unsure what the being was that was sprawled onto the floor of the cage. It heaved with each breath, and struggled as it exhaled, as if it was in pain.

It looked up, and Philippe could see two little eyes through what he thought was fur, and saw this was in fact cloth. _Oh God._ The young man gulped. He realized in horror that he was staring at a little boy.

"Lucy, we have to leave," he whispered, kneeling beside her and trying to pry her away from the boy and the cage.

"No!," she cried, grasping only tighter. She began to kick at her brother who let her go.

Philippe glanced at the boy, then back at his sister. She looked up at his with big, brown eyes that pleaded silently. He clenched his fists. He forgot all his fear, all his anger. This was no way to treat any human being, any creature of God. And Philippe, being a devout Christian, was in no position to ignore this injustice.

One of the gypsy men entered behind them, a silver dagger gleaming in his hand. The de Chagny man stood up, his eyes narrowing with a newfound hatred.

Marianne pulled at his pant leg. "Philippe, I'm frightened," she whispered.

"Shh, dear," he answered calmly, then turned to face the Romani man.

"How long has this boy been with you?" he asked, his voice bearing no hint of emotion.

"Why 'ould you care?" the Romani replied.

"If you knew who I was, you would answer," Philippe said sternly. "How long has he been with you?"

The Romani pocketed his dagger, and lost his air of superiority, not wanting to take any chances of being imprisoned by some high and mighty French aristocrat. "A bit less 'han a year."

"How much has he made you, in total?"

"Some-a-t'ing like forty francs," was the answer.

Philippe pulled a bag of coins out of his pocket. "Fifty francs," he bargained.

The Romani raised an eyebrow. "What for?"

The Vicomte nodded towards Lucy and her new companion. "His release."

**† † † †**

Inside the cage, the boy stirred. He had been staring at the girl in front of him, studying every aspect of her. In contrast to the ballerina that had stared at him earlier, the girl seemed so innocent, so pure, like she actually cared about him, rather than just feeling pity for his horrible self, hidden away from the world. He'd driven him away because she'd feel pity for the Romani just as much as he, who had to live with his horror every day. But this girl, in front of her, she was different. She was special. He felt it deep inside.

He felt it in his heart.

The man who was with her started to talk to the gypsy man. The boy paid no attention to them and lifted his hands to feel the girl's.

The two children stared at each other. The girl tried to smile, but failed. She held onto his hand. "It's going to be okay," she whispered, suddenly becoming mature from the giggling and laughing fit she'd had before entering the tent.

He almost laughed. _He was never going to be okay._

His attention went to the strange man, who had dropped a bag of coins into the gypsy's hand. He frowned, unsure of what had gone on between the two. His eyes widened as the man neared his cage again, staring in before resting his hand at the latch, making his intention clear of opening it.

The boy squirmed, retreating to the back, and the girl with the blonde hair stood up. "No, no, stop!" He froze. "We're going to help you! It's going to be okay! It will!"

It was only a few minutes later, when the four of them walked through the streets of Paris, away from the gypsies that he had come to know and hate, that he fully understood the meaning of those words.

"I'm Lucy, and this is Philippe!" said the little girl enthusiastically, skipping on the cobblestones. "You're going to come home with us, and you're going to live with us, and you're going to be my new best friend! Right, Philippe?"

"Well...," her brother said. "We'll have to find his parents first. Then Mother and Father will decide what to do." He turned his attention to his new protégé. "Do you have any parents?"

The boy shook his head.

"What's your name?"

He looked up, his big black eyes staring at the faces of his saviors.

"Erik," he whispered weakly. "My name is Erik."


	3. A New Home

**Chapter 2**

They continued down the street in complete silence, Marianne clinging onto Philippe's hand, Erik walking beside them, Lucy ahead skipping around merrily, busying herself with counting the number of streets they passed.

"Rue Scribe!" she cried, pointing at the sign. "It's the Rue Scribe! Philippe, this is where we turn!"

He nodded, with a slight smile on his face. "Yes, Lucy, this is where we turn."

The little girl cried out happily, and ran around the corner, disappearing out of sight. The rest soon followed, and Erik began to wonder what this new life would bring.

_M. and Mme. de Chagny will surely shun me_, he thought sadly. _They'll look at me and say, 'We don't want anything to do with this street urchin.' They'll put me in an orphanage, won't they? That's the place bad children like I go..._

His thoughts were interrupted when Philippe patted his shoulder.

"Have you seen the Opera Garnier before?"

Erik looked up. Before him was a sight that bewildered and astonished, marveled and amazed. He was taken aback and gasped out loud.

The Opera Garnier was truly a beautiful building. From where they stood, one could see three stories. Two immense statues of golden angels perched on each side of the rooftop, and behind them, a dome that had turned green with rust. Every aspect of the building's facade was decorated in the most precise sculpting, the most brilliant architecture.

Erik's eyes widened. Behind him, he could hear Philippe laughing.

"Come, now. We can explore the play-house some other time. We have to go; the train leaves at eight sharp."

Erik managed to peel his eyes from the theatre and turned to Philippe questioningly. He proceeded to explain that they all lived – they meaning him, the two girls, and M. and Mme. le Comte de Chagny – some two hours' train ride from Paris, in a mansion on the outskirts of the town of Chagny (which, for the record, they owned in full). Suzette, the eldest, had gone off and married. Philippe was already educated and stayed around the estate to learn about being a Comte. Lucy and Marianne, only differing in age by a year, were tutored by the same professor who came every other day at noon to three o'clock.

By the time he had finished this speech, they had walked to the Gare d'Orsay, bought tickets, and were all comfortably installed in a private compartment on the train. The seats were plush, the doors were oak, the frames on the window were painted gold. In day, Erik would have been fascinated by such rich things, but now, he was too tired to care.

As he slumped down beside Lucy, who seemed to have instantaneously lost her energy, the last thing he heard was the sound of Marianne's worried voice: "Father is going to be upset we came on the last train…"

It was ten thirty by the time they finally reached Chagny, the train having made an unexpected stop in Dijon for mechanical problems.

Philippe was carrying Marianne on his back, as she had fallen asleep and was determined not to be woken up. Erik was slightly awake, and managed to drag Lucy off the train after her brother. They walked down through the station, where a carriage was waiting for them. Once more the boy was in awe: the horses, even in the dead of night, were glowing white, the cushions were a rich red velvet, the sculpture was precise and beautiful. He had never experienced, not even seen, this level of luxury before… If Philippe's parents were only Comte and Comtess, he wondered what heaven it would be to live as a Prince or a King!

If he thought the carriage was luxurious, he could not give words to the extravagance of their mansion. It was five stories tall, complete with swimming pools, tennis courts, apple orchards. There were two full-size barns behind the main house, several smaller houses where the maids and servants lived, and a stable. It was all anyone could ever ask for, especially a little boy like Erik who had never been subject to anything remotely similar as the de Chagny mansion.

Philippe turned to Erik, who was still struggling to hold up Lucy. "Listen, Erik – that was your name, right? – Mother and Father are still likely to be awake, and in your present condition they would turn you away at first glance. Now, we don't want that to happen, do we?"

He shook his head.

"Here's what we're going to do…"

† † † †

Erik woke up, dizzy and completely unsure of his surroundings. He groaned, sitting up and looking around. He was in a strange bed, with strange furniture and, which was strangest of all, the sun was shining through the window. The wagon he was confined to had no windows…

Then it hit him. The girl, Lucy. Philippe. The Opera house. The train ride. The mansion.

He looked down at himself. He was wearing silk pajamas and clean, white socks. The layer of filth and grime that was previously on his skin had disappeared, and there was no more dirt under his fingernails. He stroked his hair from under his mask and found it similarly clean. He frowned, thinking, as he remembered little from the night before. Philippe had brought the girls to bed, then snuck him to a remote guest bedroom, and ordered Erik to bathe. He probably fell asleep in the bathroom.. which would mean Philippe cleaned him.

_Which would mean Philippe saw his face._

Erik jumped up, stumbling over his feet. Philippe saw his face. He found himself sprawled on the floor, and he tensed, clawing at the carpet to push himself up. Philippe saw his face. He was tied to the floor, a whip beating at him and forcing him painfully forwards. Whichet, whichet. Philippe saw his face. Erik screamed out, trying to escape his life, his horrible, miserable existence, falling into the black pit of the caravan that he would be once again thrown into...

"Erik!"

Philippe was kneeling beside him, his sturdy hands holding onto the boy's bony shoulders, stopping his violent shaking. He silenced him with a motion of his hands, and gave him a soft smile.

"Erik, it's all right. There's nothing more to be afraid of. You're safe here," he whispered, rocking the child gently.

Erik relaxed. He felt suddenly strangely at peace in the arms of the young man before him. He somehow knew that he wasn't lying. He, being subject to sin at a young age, knew of the demeanor of a liar... A slight twitch of the brow, a wandering eye, a nervous laugh. Much unlike the de Chagny son.

Philippe moved Erik from his lap back onto the floor. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He seemed confused and uncertain about how to proceed.

"Mother and Father aren't awake yet. It'll take a lot of convincing on my part, and yours... Do you think you're up for it?"

The little boy nodded vigorously.

They stared at each other for a few minutes, before Philippe spoke again, "I sense a but."

Erik's black eyes widened and narrowed. "My face."

"Oh."

Philippe pulled a small silk bag from his pocket. It was a soft beige color and had two little holes for the eyes.

_No._

He jerked away violently and banged his head on the bed. He let out a small cry as Philippe launched himself at the boy, and tried to grab his torso, but succeeded in only grabbing his ankle. Erik fell to the ground with a loud bang and his body suddenly tensed, and he began to to jerk around in awkward positions.

Philippe held the boy down firmly.

"Boy," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "You're a mess! You can't expect anyone to like you with that god forsaken rag over your face!"

"Philippe, what is going on?", said a feminine voice behind them.

A middle-aged woman was standing in the doorway, her delicate manicured hand resting on the doorknob. She appeared the ultimate figure of the French aristocracy. A silk pastel pink nightgown framed her thin body, and a ringlet of blonde curls rested atop her head. Her skin was of a pale white that contrasted her rosy cheeks and lips. The woman's name was Margaux, and she was Mme. le Conte de Chagny.

"Who is this?" she asked calmly. Her voice was quiet, but she had an air of authority and respect that quieted the two boys before her.

"Mother, I–I can explain," Philippe started, but Madame silenced him with a wave of her hand.

"Marianne had already explained everything," Madame said coldly. "Young man, get out of my sight."

Erik's shoulders sank as he watched his only friend scamper out of the room like a bat out of hell.

The woman took a few steps towards him. She bent down until she was at eye level with the little boy.

"You must be very scared," she said quietly. He shook his head firmly. "I suppose not. You were captured by gypsies, correct? They can be very scary."

Erik glared, but he stayed silent. "Now, – Erik, is it? – you've noticed by now that we de Chagnys are a firm bunch." Her voice suddenly softened. "But know, we are firm, but we are just. We would never send a little child back to a place like that."

"Am I going to an orphanage?" Erik asked, already guessing the answer. However, his guess was not the one he heard.

"No," Madame said with a heavy breath. "No, not to an orphanage. Horrible places, they are. They get in your flesh and breathe death into the living." She sighed. "No, dear. My husband and I had a long talk. You are to stay here."

Erik stared at her incredulously with his big black eyes.

"Welcome home."


	4. Shedding the Layers of the Past

**A/N: Exams are over, and I have more time to write. Expect a lot more updates! Happy summer holidays everyone! Check out my one-shot type story Memoirs of a Vicomte, I've gotten a lot of positive feedback on that one! Thanks again for reading!**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Despite the seemingly calming effect Madame de Chagny had on Erik, the moment she rid the room of her presence and Philippe had graced Erik with his own, did the poor boy finally let the tears fall.

There was little more to be expected of him. Despite having developed the mind of a child prodigy, he was just that – a child. Erik was barely seven years of age, and though, for the most part, he acted well beyond his few years, now was not one of those times.

"It cannot be!" he cried. "It cannot be!"

Philippe stood at the door, one hand clutching the knob, one hanging at his side, on his face an expression of confusion. Erik ignored this, and continued to wail loudly.

"Never has Erik had a home before! Never!"

The de Chagny boy tilted his head. It was the first time his younger friend referred to himself in third person, and it certainly would not be his last. Philippe, for a brief moment of selfish confusion and curiosity, wondered if Erik was indeed insane.

However, this instance, Erik did take notice of Philippe. His wailing suddenly stopped, only to be replaced seconds later by quieter, heaving sobs.

"Yes! Erik was taught that by his mama! Not to speak with 'I' and 'me'! Erik does not deserve that comfort, for Erik is a terrible little boy, and should be punished! Erik was taught that by mama, too!"

Philippe clenched the door knob tighter. A sudden shudder ran through his spine. He immediately detested the mother of his friend, for what mother would deny her own son the ability to speak as his own person? To teach a child to despise himself was, he decided, one of the worst sins one could commit. Instantly, Philippe bent down to the boy's side, breathing in and out deeply, stroking his thick, black hair. Erik was calmed by the rhythmic motion, but not enough to cease his fit altogether.

"You are all lying to me! Soon, you will throw me away, just like mama threw away Sasha!"

Now, Philippe hadn't the faintest idea what the poor boy was rambling on about, but continued to pet his hair. Growing up with two much younger siblings took its toll, and Philippe felt himself more a father to them than a brother. He learnt that patience, perseverance, and consolation were the best tools of the trade of parenthood.

After his much-needed cry, Erik finally looked up from Philippe's embrace. It had been the second time Philippe had hugged him, and the information suddenly sank in. Mama never pet my hair.. she certainly never hugged me. He began to wonder if it was not all, in fact, a lie meant simply to hurt him, and that Philippe did, in fact, care.

The young man closed his eyes. Yes, Erik would be a hard sibling to raise. Yes, he would certainly present a challenge, but Philippe was willing to accept that. The poor, despite his tender age, had evidently been through too much, and a good Christian such as Philippe could not deny him the chance of growing up into normalcy.

"Erik, we are not lying to you." The teenager blinked and struggled to form words as Erik's black eyes stared him down. "You are welcome here now, amongst your friends. That has been decided. Whether you will accept it, or not, is your decision."

For a long moment, the two of them stood there, unmoving, neither daring to breathe. Finally, the younger one spoke.

"Friends?"

His voice wavered, as if he was not quite aware of actually speaking it, and that instead the sound was formed by a thought so powerful, it broke the border of reality and consciousness.

Philippe, not being an intellectual, took no notice of this. He simply nodded slowly, trying to get his point across to his difficult subject.

"Yes. Friends."

† † † †

Friends. It would be awhile before Erik knew the true meaning of the word.

He rarely saw the two other children. He was confined to his room – his own room, he dared to call it – and did not dare disobey Madame's strict orders. They were his sole companions, besides the faceless servants that came and brought him meals.

Philippe visited quite often, perhaps two to three times a day. Many times, they would simply sit, Philippe would stroke his hair, and Erik would cry. The crying, however, began to become much less frequent as his days at the de Chagny mansion pressed on, and Erik began to realize that he had been accepted into a very rich family.

For one, the meals! He, who had never indulged in food in his life, began to enjoy the exotic taste of various foods that were brought to him. True, he could eat no more than several bites at a time due to his weak stomach, but he picked through his platter and carefully selected his bites so that they would be the most flavourful.

Secondly, the materials he found himself immersed in were magnificent. From the clothes to the drapes to the bedsheets, everything Erik touched seemed as soft as a goose feather. Many an hour he sat there, pondering, stroking a bit of cloth lovingly.

Finally, there were the servants. Many times Erik had heard of servants, people hired to cater to one's every need, but he'd never actually seen one. He stared at them in wonder as they brought in food, clean clothes, and exited with his laundry. Had Monsieur and Madame le Conte really hired people to cater to him? For some reason, this thought made him quite uncomfortable. He convinced himself that they were servants to the entire household, which he was now apart of.

All this was incredibly new to Erik. The more he was immersed the lifestyle of wealth, he more he liked it. He didn't even mind being stuck in a single room.

It was a lonely day, a week and a half or so after he'd arrived at the de Chagny estate. Philippe hadn't come to visit yet, and Erik was getting bored of stroking the soft material of his clothes, which were a light green cotton long-sleeve shirt and a white pair of pants. Though he detested the bright colors, he was glad that he was given long-sleeve attire, instead of shorts and short-sleeve tops that he had often seen Philippe wear. True, it was summer, but Erik would rather not have his new friends see his grotesque physical features. A minor precaution so he wouldn't be turned out.

Just to be safe.

As Erik sat on his bed, gently petting the bottom of his shirt, he was suddenly aware of a strange presence in the room. He jerked his head up, and came face to face with a stranger man.

The man was a doctor. That could be assumed. He wore an odd white hat and a rather large stethoscope around his neck. Erik couldn't remember ever seeing a doctor before, but he immediately made the connection. Philippe stood with his arms crossed, standing protectively behind his younger friend.

"Erik," he whispered gently. The boy in question slowly peeled his eyes away from the strange doctor to turn to Philippe. "This man is a doctor."

"I figured that," replied Erik.

"He is here to help. You're going to need to take off your bag."

Erik felt a cry rising in his throat, but held it back. He would need all his energy.. all his energy to...

He made a wild leap from the bed, sprinting towards the door, but Philippe was quicker. Erik felt himself lifted back onto the bed, as he thrashed and kicked around. Despite Philippe being the one to thwart his plan, Erik curled up with his face buried in the man's chest.

"Don't make me take off my mask, Philippe. Don't make me do that! You wouldn't be friends with Erik anymore! Madame wouldn't be friends with Erik anymore! No one would like Erik!"

Philippe let out a sigh, used to Erik's self-hating outbursts. He motioned for the doctor to wait, who was still standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed, as he patted Erik's hair.

"We're friends. Do you know what friends do? They accept each other. I accept you, Erik. I've already seen your face when I bathed you the first night, remember? Don't worry about the doctor, he's seen far worse."

"Erik doubts it."

"I don't."

Erik pulled away, having started to shake. Out of fear, shyness, self-hatred, he didn't know. But slowly, Philippe pulled off his dirty cloth bag, and he let him.

The doctor could not help but gasp.

If the boy's pale, bony members were bad, then his face was an utter catastrophe. Erik had no nose. In its place was a large gaping hole that formed a sort of triangle. The flesh of his cheeks, chin, forehead, was all peeling and rotting away, a very uneven surface, complete with little holes and crevasses. The skin that was left clung tightly to his bones. And in the middle of it all were Erik's big black eyes.

In all, it was grotesque.

The doctor slowly inched his way over to the young boy and stared deeply at his face, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach and struggling to keep his professional appearance. He needed to examine his patient. One examination, and he would be out of here.

It didn't take long. The doctor looked at Erik's non-existent nose and his skin closely, but he didn't dare touch the child. No, never.

After several minutes, the doctor stood up straight and allowed Erik to replace his mask, having reached a verdict.

"Doctor, what's your diagnosis?" called Madame's peculiar voice as she entered the room.

The doctor coughed loudly, and turned to speak to the woman in a quiet, hushed voice, out of hearing reach of the others. "Well, Madame... He is severely malnourished. He refuses to eat any more than a few mouthfuls at a time, you say? His stomach is simply not used to eating more. If you follow my instructions..." He proceeded to explain how, besides having a monstrous birth defect, the boy had one of the worst cases of flesh-eating bacteria he had ever seen.

The doctor hastily parted, and Madame was left staring at the dirty cloth mask wondering what on earth laid behind it.

† † † †

That day, perhaps because he had been deemed healthy with no contagious ailments, Erik had a special visitor. Philippe had left him, as if it were any other day, stroking one of his pillows and staring out the window.

A little knock at the door jerked the boy back to reality. He frowned, staring. Philippe didn't usually knock, and Madame certainly didn't. Cautious as well as curious, he pushed himself off the bed and hid behind it, with one eye still peeking out from behind the mattress to observe the little figure that entered. Lucille, the youngest, Erik remembered, and stood up to meet her.

She was dressed in a too-large pair of jean overalls and a blue plaid shirt. Her blond hair was braided in two pigtails that stuck out awkwardly from either side of her head. She was smaller than Erik remembered, but the last time he'd seen her, she had been wearing a tight-fitting dress.

The little girl stood proudly, despite her short height. She glimpsed him, even from behind the bed, and frowned, letting out a "Hey!". Erik, seeing no other choice, crawled out into sight, making a mental note that she had a better eyesight than was expected of a five-year-old.

"Why were you hiding?"

Erik did not have an answer to her question, and almost did not hear it over his own questions in his mind. Why would she come here? What would a normal girl like her want to do with me?

"Are you mute? Mother says that mute people don't like to talk." Lucy skipped towards him and sat on the windowsill, continuing even before he could formulate an answer.

"My name's Lucy, I think I already told you that, it stands for Lucille, but I don't like Lucille, it's an awfully proper name, and I don't like that. I don't really like anything proper, you know, Mother says that it's bad for a little girl like me, but I don't like tea, I don't like milk – you know, I just usually eat the sugar cubes, I do really like sugar – I don't like dresses, I like wearing Philippe's overalls, I don't know why Mother says I shouldn't be wearing Philippe's overalls, he said he could wear them when he was my age, he's the one who taught me to climb trees, you know – I love climbing trees, I climb them every day, Mother says it's not proper, but I couldn't care, Mother's all talk and no – Are you listening?"

Erik was sitting on the ground with his head tilted to one side, not fully processing the extent of her ramblings, as his own questions were drowning out hers. Why did she come here? What would a normal girl like her want to do with me? A few seconds went by before he quickly nodded his head.

"Will you come climb trees with me, Monsieur ..?

"Erik. Just Erik."

"Well, Erik, will you come climb trees with me?"

"Really? Can I?"

"You might want to wear Philippe's overalls, Mother wouldn't like it if you dirtied her pretty white clothes." She handed him a pair of the jean outfit that she had previously draped over her arm.

Erik gingerly took the clothes and, without a second glance at Lucy, darted into the bathroom to change. For once, he was glad he was wearing his bag, for he was grinning like an idiot. Never had Erik expected to be friends with someone normal his own age! He was two years her senior, sure, but the closest friend to his age was Philippe.

He froze. Was Lucy his friend?

A knock on the bathroom door surprised him. Without waiting for an answer, Lucy opened the door, and peeked her head inside. Luckily, he was already changed. She stared at him for a few seconds before handing him a small piece of cloth and closing the door again.

Erik stared at the cloth, turning it over in his hands. His eyes narrowed as he saw two little holes in the material. It was the same silk cloth Philippe had tried to make him wear on his first day. He must have put Lucy up to it.

He didn't want to abandon his old, dirty rag. Him and that rag had been through thick and thin. His horrible mother had first bought it for him so she wouldn't have to look at her son's face. Rather, she hadn't bought the bag: the bag was that of a sack of potatoes. It was itchy and smelly and dirty. But it was the only thing Erik had ever known. Through those days in Boscherville, through those nights in the Romani camp, it had never left him.

Was he ready to give it up? The only object that he held dear?

Philippe was asking this of him. Lucy was asking this of him. Madame was asking this of him. They had already let him live in their home. Philippe had accepted him and even seen his face without retching.

They were helping him.

Erik took off his rag and held it in one hand, the silk bag in the other. He was still holding onto the past, though he was desperate to let go of it. In a matter of weeks, he had found himself in a position where he would no longer live in shame, in fear, in sadness. He had found hope.

Slowly, he dropped the rag onto the floor and raised the smooth silk over his head. With a newfound confidence and determination, Erik smiled, opening the door, shedding the layers of his past and stepping into the light.


	5. Arising Friendships

**Chapter 4: Arising Friendships**

**Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii again. I'M SORRY I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN HALF A YEAR. I'M SORRY, DON'T KILL ME. I kinda.. forgot I had this story? DON'T KILL ME! Yeah, I pretty much forgot I had a FanFiction account. Plus school is crazy this year. But now it's good, and I'm gonna be writing A LOT MORE OFTEN. Expect weekly updates. I know I promised weekly updates last time... But I'll be good on my promise this time! Anyways... Here ya go, chapter 4 of Fallen Angel. Enjoy!~**

When one falls ill, one stays inside. One doesn't wander off through grass in the middle of the day, for fear of becoming even more sickly. If one had contracted a particularly harmful ailment, several months might be spent indoors. Once the sickness has come and gone, and the health returns to the individual, they may finally step into the fresh air.

The sensation is profound and invigorating. First, a flash of bright light; then, as the eyes adjust, the ears began to function: crickets and animals scurrying about, perhaps the sound of sprinklers or of cars. Next colors come into the picture and the shapes in front of them become clear and wonderful. The amazing process of being re-introduced to nature is perhaps worth those months confined to the indoors.

Imagine the reaction of a child. Imagine the reaction of a child who had been indoors not for months, but for years. Imagine this and multiply it by, say, a thousand.

These were Erik's first moments in the sun.

Sure, a few weeks ago he had been transferred from the gypsy camp to the train to the mansion, but all this was in the dead of night. In fact, if one probed deep into the child's mind, there would not be one moment of stepping into sunshine. He had seen the sun through windows, of course, but not once had his mother or the gypsies allowed him to bathe in the sun's brilliant rays.

Of course, he not only felt the sun on his bare skin, but the grass beneath his toes that both prickled and massaged. He felt the tumbling breeze that gently ruffled his mask and clothes. He could hear the delicate song of the birds and the distant murmur of a river. He could smell the exquisite things that one might smell in summertime, and he could –

"Hey! Are you coming, or are you just gonna stand there all day? Do mute people not like to move, too? Or is it just the talking part?"

Erik was snapped out of his dream-like state as his eyes flickered to the little blonde girl who now stood before him, encouraging him to explore this new world further.

"Of course I can move," he said quickly, becoming a bit more confident around his new companion.

"Prove it!" Lucy cried, laughing. She flashed a toothless grin and pointed in the direction of a cluster of trees, apparently the ones she wanted to climb.

"Race you!"

He didn't need a second warning, immediately taking off like a bullet in the direction she had pointed. The God above – if there was one – had sent him a second chance, and he wasn't planning on wasting it. He would prove himself to his new companion, and if that meant running, so be it. He would make himself something, become someone important.

He would do something with his life. He had been given this chance for a reason, and whatever it may be, he would do his best to fulfill that purpose. And there and then, at the age of seven, running towards an apple orchard, he decided he would put all his effort to do something extraordinary.

Lucy arrived a few seconds after him. She seemed impressed.

"You're fast," she commented. "Even Philippe doesn't run that fast. I beat Philippe most of the time. He says that I'm smaller and lighter, but I think I'm just better!" she let out a soft squeal. "Let's see how you do in my specialty – climbing!" she cried out, and made a leap for one of the trees.

The boy turned to an nearby one. He had to stare at Lucy for a few seconds to understand how this 'climbing' worked exactly, but he quickly caught on. First, you had to test the branch to make sure it would hold you. Next, you needed to haul yourself onto it, legs wrapped tightly around, and repeat steps one and two until you reached the very top.

It was a quick race. It took Erik a maximum of two minutes to climb the tree, but apparently it wasn't good enough. His younger counterpart was already there by the time he poked his head through the leaves.

"I coulda taken a nap in the time it took you to get up here!" she leaned back, firmly secure against one of the branches, her signature toothless grin plastered on her face. "Guess I'm still the queen of the trees!"

She began to talk, babbling on about trees and the forest and what Philippe did or didn't do, and Erik glanced off, nodding at the right moments. He stared out over the seemingly infinite countryside, in one direction the mansion, in the other a limitless expanse of the greens of treetops. What had previously appeared a small cluster now became a gigantic forest, and it amazed him.

"You don't take too well to listening, do you?"

Erik turned back to Lucy. She was making an odd face, with one eyebrow arched, her mouth in a thin line, and her arms crossed in a pout. He interpreted this as a negative reaction. What had he done now? What had Erik done wrong this time?

"Erik has not been good."

Lucy frowned, unable to comprehend what her comrade was going on about. She paused for a few seconds, thinking, before she decided to ignore the statement and continue to talk about her adventures with Philippe in the forest, as it was so very important that Erik be brought up to speed if he should wish to partake in the conquest of the oak tree kingdom that lay just beyond the apple orchard.

Erik listened on, stunned. Had she really just ignored him? She didn't care? It didn't matter to her that Erik was not a good little boy, and that he deserved to be punished? No, it seemed not.

Was this the meaning of friendship? Not caring? Ignoring one's faults and mistakes?

Little did he know, as he pondered the meaning of his new connections with Philippe, Madame, and Lucy, that several of the individuals in question were at that very moment discussing his fate.

† † † †

"But we _can't_. I won't let you do that. I simply won't!"

Philippe stood in one of his family's grand dining rooms capable of hosting dozens of people. A long oak table stood in the center, where he and his parents were seated, M le Conte at the head, and his wife and son to his right. The three of them were all dressed in their best attire, as if expecting someone important, though they had no such thing in mind. They had dismissed the servants, and remained the only ones in the large vast room.

The air was tense. It was one of those rare times where le Comte was seen by his wife or any of his children: the man spent most of his time in the city and only came on holidays or when there were important matters to discuss, like today. Philippe secretly suspected several affairs, but he dared not to meddle in his father's business, and could do nothing about it anyways if the rumors were true.

"He thinks we've taken him in for good. I won't let you put him back out there!" Philippe yelled.

"Don't you dare raise your voice to me, young man," his father snarled.

The room went silent once more.

M le Conte cleared his throat. "Now, as I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, we cannot let him stay at the mansion. As much as you seem to care for this boy, I refuse. It is not legal for us to take him in, as we have not legally adopted him. I am not willing to break laws for this little boy."

Philippe frowned. "But he doesn't have any papers, he doesn't technically exist. It would only take a few months at most for us to – "

"Yes, a few months, precisely." His father glared. "In that time anything could happen. I am one of the most important people in all of France, I will not sacrifice my position for some filthy orphan!"

"Father, please. Why do you have to change your mind now? Didn't you and Mother have a very serious talk – "

This time it was Mme that interrupted her son. "The barn."

M le Conte frowned. "What?"

"The barn at that back of the house. It's all locked up and no one's been in there in ages." She looked up. "Put him there until we can get the papers."

Philippe seemed excited. "If you'd like, he could stay there. I think it'd be good for him, he's very independent, a little peace and quiet wouldn't hurt him either…"

† † † †

Lucy and Erik still sat up in the trees, staring out over the horizon. They'd been up there for hours: the sun was now beginning to set, casting streaks of orange and pink across the sky.

"I'm hungry. I wanna go home." Without any response, she began to climb down the tree, which slightly confused Erik. It would be awhile before he could fully understand how little girls functioned.

It just so happened that, if Lucy was the fastest to the top, Erik was the fastest to the bottom. He lowered himself onto the grass and waited.

And waited and waited.

"Erik…" he heard, followed by an uncomfortable cracking noise. He peered up at her tree, trying to see what had happened to her.

The cracking noise abruptly stopped, but another sound, much more eerie, followed it. Lucy's scream. Erik quickly moved out of the way as a very large branch fell to the ground beside him, and as he looked up –

Lucy fell in a heap on top of him, sending them both spiraling to the ground.

A few minutes passed before either of them moved. Erik sat up and, instinctively, looked over his friend to make sure she was alright. Luckily, she had little more than a scraped knee, but if Erik hadn't broken her fall…

Lucy began to cry, big blue tears erupting from her eyes as she wailed. Erik frowned, unsure of how to deal with this situation. He resorted to awkwardly patting her back and muttering, "there, there," as he had sometimes seen the gypsies do.

Eventually she sat up beside him, and stood up. Then, slowly, he helped her back across the field of grass, back over the fence, beyond the fields of happiness and treetops of sunshine, back to the beam of light that was the mansion, shining like a beacon over the sea of Erik's fading despair.


End file.
